It was as if something had bitten a chunk out of the building, something that hungered for wood but not plaster or steel. “Momma?”

“Water damage. Rain comes in the hole in the roof, rots the wood, eventually it collapses under its own weight.” They’d have to watch their step, and she’d have to block off areas where there was danger of further collapse. I was an engineer, once.

“Is it safe?”

Mother smiled, nodded reassurance. “Safe. No stairs anymore means no zombies up this high. We can sleep.” She tousled the boy’s hair; her hand lingered. “Safe as houses.”

It’s not a hard spell. I found it in a book: some monk with a Latin name trying to describe it without describing it, all nod and wink and innuendo.

Not all demons are ugly or evil. Some are actually pretty hot. And very grateful for being temporarily released from the Pit. Twyx ran up my hotel minibar bill (what, I’m not stupid enough to summon a demon to my own house) and started a bathtub fire (don’t ask) but man, there must be a sex school in Hell and she must have been valedictorian.

She sat, patiently, watching him rehearse the speech. He shuffled his notecards; he sounded out words to find their magic; he shifted his weight, searching in vain for a way to lean against the lectern without looking uncomfortable, a big man trying not to look small.

You’re never ready: eventually you just decide to stop practicing. He came down, he asked, “How was it?”

“Wonderful, sir.” She nodded. “A little long.”

“Long?”

“These chairs are uncomfortable. They’ll already have been sitting for an hour by the time you go up.” She reached into the wicker basket. “Here, have a sandwich.”